"It is queer that those marks should be there," he said, "but it is still queerer that they should put Harley in such a wax. Suppose I had put the crosses there, for instance—well, the thing would be just as queer, wouldn't it? A knowledge of how the marks got on the card would not explain Harley's behavior."
"You are right," returned the old man dryly. "And Harley was right, too, when he said that you are not such a fool as the people of Samson's Mill Settlement think you."
Rayton laughed frankly.
"You spoke of not having a drop of red ink in the house; but you did not mention—to me, at least—a drop of anything else," continued the other.
"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Rayton. "This mystery has quite muddled me. I'm awfully sorry, really."
He bustled about and placed a bottle of whisky, a jug of fresh water, and two glasses on the table.
"Don't apologize, Reginald," said Wigmore, with a thin smile. "It is not often you forget to offer hospitality. The fact is, you are a bit too hospitable. You'll be giving away the clothes off your back next—even those elegant looking pants, perhaps."
"Oh, come now!" remonstrated the younger man, pulling at his straw-colored mustache, and grinning sheepishly.
"You must have a pot of money, Reginald," said the other.
"Heavens! No!"